


... love you (I guess I wasn't enough for you)

by GreenHeadedTanager37



Category: GOT7
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Depression, F/M, Inner Dialogue, Insecure Im Jaebum | JB, Jaebum's name actually isn't in this so if you don't like got7 you can still read it I guess, Past Relationship(s), Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, There are no names at all actually how emo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:47:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24356797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenHeadedTanager37/pseuds/GreenHeadedTanager37
Summary: 'love you'Those were the last words he had sent her over text before their fight. Before she left for the last time.
Relationships: Im Jaebum | JB/Original Character(s), Im Jaebum | JB/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	... love you (I guess I wasn't enough for you)

**Author's Note:**

> Psst, if you like music while reading, here's some of what I was listening to:
> 
> Monty Data- Can't love myself https://youtu.be/loi9Tfgbg-A
> 
> Nymano- The man alone https://youtu.be/ND4aHAt64po
> 
> Idealism- Lonely  
> https://youtu.be/RP0wI0wr0Do

  
  


'love you'  
  
  


Those were the last words he had sent her over text before their fight. Before she left for the last time.

  
  


Their fights were more like long stalemates of silence. There was never any real heat to them until she snapped in the end. Until he had pressed and pressed and backed her into a corner were she finally fought her way out. Hitting him as hard as she could to get him to let go of her, dealing deep wounds and leaving him with the knife in his heart.  
  
He had been brave for a day, two, even three. Firmly telling himself it wasn't so bad, that he was fine. But he slowly started to crumble inside. By the end of the week, he couldn't get out of bed. There was no reason. All of his motivations, inspirations, crushed under the ever-pervading thoughts of grief.  
  
_She's not coming back. You weren't enough for her to stay. You aren't enough._  
  
The shock of what had happened, what felt like so suddenly, was wearing off. Behind, it left a cold, deep hole, a cavity in his chest that clawed deep into him, affecting everything. His thoughts, his emotions, his choices, all tanted. So he stopped doing things, tried to stop thinking and feeling, nursing the wound.  
  
He spent his weekend hiding from the world, only leaving his sheets to use the bathroom and occasionally get something to drink or eat without appetite. His reclusion was nothing new, except he wasn't only trying to hide from others this time, but also from himself. He was dissapointed with himself, disgusted almost. Every time he woke up, whether it be morning, evening, or the middle of the night, he couldn't escape the feeling. An abhorring, almost a longing, yearning to just be someone, anyone, except for himself.  
  
The problem was that he couldn't even find out what was so horrible about himself. What she, no, both of them now, hated so strongly. But still, the self-loathing hung over him, and inside of him, clinging to his heart and weighing it down in his chest. Her harsh words kept coming back to him. Over and over his mind played through their last fight like a broken record. Her words, sharpened by how long she had held them in, aimed and plunged into him without remorse.  
  
She meant to hurt him, to make him let go of her, and he knew it. But that only made it hurt worse. That she hated him enough to hurt him on purpose, and that he still loved her after she did. And she left, leaving him bleeding out, her knife left hanging from where she had twisted it into his flesh. He couldn't pull it out, after it all ended. He still loved her.  
  
In the middle of the second week, he was forced to take a shower. His first since before the fight. He didn't want to, still not feeling like living. But his phone was blowing up with texts from worried friends. Some of them had apparently come by at different points only to find the door to his apartment locked, and he, still in bed not answering the bell. So he started getting calls, tons of them, until he finally, reluctantly messaged that he was alive. Of course then he was overwhelmed by texts, angry about him worrying them, and concerned and asking how he was. He didn't feel like dealing with any of them, so he said he'd shower and take care of himself if they'd leave him alone.  
  
He was in bed until noon, often gazing towards the bathroom door, knowing that he should be responsible and mature, force himself to get up and go shower.  
  
But he couldn't.  
  
The heavy listlessness, the indifference clung to him like chains, wrapping around his limbs and weighting him down into his sheets. What was the point? The demon in his head kept asking. In anything? What did it matter whether he showered or not? It wasn't like he had anything to do, anywhere to go, or anyone to see. And even if he did, he didn't want to.  
  
But eventually, he had to use the toilet, and, after suppressing and ignoring the urge for almost an hour, he slowly pulled himself up and staggered into the bathroom. Once there, he didn't let himself leave, resolutely unclothing himself and turning on the water.  
  
So he showered, mindlessly. The water turned up almost all the way, as if the harsh spray would drown out his thoughts. The walls in the bathroom sweated, condensation from the scalding water coating everything. But, though the bathroom filled with steam, his lungs sucking in the thickened air, the stream coming down on his head still didn't feel hot enough.  
  
He stood, weakly, one red hand splayed against the cold glass to hold himself up. He knew he was showering, but after he got in, he almost forgot where he was, his mind still trapped in the same place as before. He stayed in until he got too dizzy to stand, sinking to his knees.  
  
He vaguely felt the grout of the tile against his knees, watching the water drain after he shut it off. He tried not to let other things go down the drain with it.  
  
After he felt less nauseous and a little clearer headed, he begrudgingly decided to blow-dry his hair. He hoped to help clear the bathroom of stream, and maybe to life his spirits a bit with more self-care. The cool blast of air did feel good on his overheated skin.  
  
He brushed his teeth, rewarded by the flavor of death finally leaving where it had been sticking to his tongue for the past week. He got dressed. He put on his favorite shirt, the symbol of a band in striking white across the black tee. He paired it with black skinny jeans, holes in the knees big enough to stick a hand through. He clipped his watch onto his wrist. He even put in earrings, pointy black ones he hadn't worn in a long time, but used to be some of his go-to's. Then, so long as he was in the jewelry drawer, he slipped a few rings onto his fingers and hung a silver chain around his neck to top it off.  
  
He looked up to check himself in the mirror. His all black outfit was only accented by whites and silvers, his hair was clean and fluffy, and his cheekbones were more prominent today, probably from his lack of interest in food. He looked surprisingly good.  
  
But he doesn't feel it. He even feels more like giving up after reassuring himself that he can be good looking. Because after all, if he was good looking, and attractive, that meant that she hated him for who he was. Who he really was, on the inside. That place that was still bleeding, dark blood going down, down, down. A constant dripping that no surface level band-aids seemed to fix.  
  
He had always had bad grades in school, his teachers and parents always telling him he needed to try harder, that what he was doing wasn't enough. Naturally athletic looking, he was always pushed to try out for sports, and always ended up failing miserably at them. They kept him off the teams, he wasn't enough for them either. As a young adult he was making music, and the mixers, producers, competitors, were all still saying the same things. His brain, his body, his passion, weren't enough. And now, in light of this, _he_ wasn't enough. Who he was. His personality, his being. She didn't even realize how much she crushed him with that.  
  
Clicking off the light and wandering out of the bathroom again, the apartment was a lot darker than it had seemed before.  
  
He opened the curtains to the tall window in his room, across from his bed. He squinted as the light trickled in, cloudy and dim, but still making him blink.  
  
He knew it was raining, he could hear the sound of it in the gutters since he had begun waking up.  
  
It was a rainy, breezy day somewhere in late September, a cold front blowing in. He absentmindedly wondered what day it was, having lost track somewhere along the way. Everything was a blur, a mess of consciousness and unconsciousness, waking and sleeping whenever, not caring what was happening to the world outside of his tiny abode.  
  
The city, or what he could see of it through the fog, was like a watercolor painting. Distorted by the raindrops that fell from the sky, some hitting and running down the glass. Cold white light escaped the dark clouds, falling on his person, covered in black. A small, dark smear in the grayscale world, a shadow in the dark. Darkness, that expanded on forever. He was a second, a tick of a clock, in all of the years the world went on. The next moment, he would be gone, countless rainy Septembers passing by without noticing his absence.  
  
He breathed in, and out, dragging each breath out as long as he could to bring himself back to the present. He pushed fingers into his pockets and leaned against the wall, gazing below.  
  
Occasional umbrellas dotted the maze of streets, each one a signal, a flare, meaning at least one person was underneath. One living person, living a life completely apart from his own. Their own experiences, memories, family, friends, lovers, secrets, lies. A history, completely their own, that maybe no one else would ever know, or understand. What would it be like to be someone else? People didn't even see colors in the same ways. What else about their perspectives would be so totally different from his, the only one he had ever known?  
  
Water streaked down the window pane and he pressed his warm fingers against it, wanting to feel the chill it would bring him. He wanted to feel awake, alive, like he had in the past. But nothing in him responded. He flat-lined, but was still trying to find a pulse.  
  
He slowly slid down the wall to face away from the window, towards his bed as he came to rest on the dusty hardwood floor. He sat here often, usually on his laptop composing songs, or with a pad of paper to jot down lyrics as they came to him. Sometimes he would read, a cup of coffee or tea on the sill next to him, or in his hands being sipped from.  
  
Now, he just sat. The only noises were the rain, an occasional passing car, and the almost silent ticking of the watch on his wrist. He supposed, if he were to make a song from this moment, he already had the basis for it. A gentle, yet constant thrumming sound representing the rain, possibly backed by purposeful static. A soft snare like the ticking hand of his watch. And a melody, probably in piano, for the aching in his chest. He could almost hear it, envision the notes in his head.  
  
But it tired him. He didn't want to work up the energy to write it down or play it on his computer, or even hum it out. His thoughts reset, starting back over on the repeat they had been stuck on. Nothing else kept his interest. Not today.  
  
They had grown distant slowly. She always said she needed a break, she just needed time away from him. Perhaps what he was feeling now was similar. It felt awful. But even though all of those warnings had been blaring in his face, he continued to lie to himself. They were fine. They were okay. She just needed to figure herself out before she was back to normal.  
  
Normal. That word hurt, sent another ache through his chest. The memory of a time that seemed so far away now. Yes, they had been happy together, in the beginning. It felt like so, so long ago. He could remember when she smiled at him, real happiness pouring from her eyes and lips. Why couldn't it have stayed there? That moment, frozen, like it was in his memories?  
  
When had it started? When she would drop his intertwined hand, or even chose to ignore it, outstretched and hopeful? Had there been something to kickstart it? Was it something he did? He didn't know.  
  
He ran a hand through his hair, grabbing and tugging at the roots, closing his eyes. What had he been so focused on to be so blind? Had it been her? But then how could he have totally overlooked the way she was feeling? Had it been him? But how could he have been so focused on himself, and still felt alright, when, now, left alone with himself, he couldn't stand it?  
  
He sighed and tipped his head back against the cold wall, revelation washing over him in chills. 'Us'. The idea of _them_ together through thick and thin, forever, so forefront in his mind that he never stopped to looked at them as individuals. As people, that had differences, that experienced things differently, thought differently, and led different lives. He hardly considered that they would lead separate ones, always pushing the thought from his mind like it was a poison. And what good had it done him? Now? At the end of everything?  
  
A desperate sound left through his teeth and he dropped his head to his knees. But his eyes were still dry. He couldn't will them to be wet, even if he wanted to, dehydrated and dried out in every aspect. He was tired of crying. He was too tired to cry, even if he felt like it.  
  
He had cried during their fight. He remembered feeling embarrassed at the wetness rolling down his cheeks, quickly wiping them away as if they were made of fire. Like they were a weakness. And he guessed they were, caused by someone he was weak for. He should have cried, was right to have cried. He was losing someone important, it was painful. He remembered the shock, confusion, and frustration vividly, like the fight had been just yesterday. But the argument, the insults, the begging, he couldn't recall clearly.  
  
Your very last words to a person are basically your last words alive to them. What had been his last spoken words to her? He can't remember at all. His whole side of the fight is a blur in his mind: smears of shock and anxiety, sharp cold fear that he was really losing her turning into burning pain, coals in his stomach that he wanted to throw up.  
  
'love you' had been the last words immortalized, written down and sent off with hopeful optimism. She had never even responded.  
  
He opened up his phone, going back to that text. He tapped on it, holding his breath for a moment, and deleted it. It was for himself, it would still be there on her phone of course. If she even still had his number. He stared at the screen for a long time, waking it back up whenever it tried to go to sleep.  
  
Then, he tapped on her profile, his thumb hovering over the delete button.  
  
How could the name, the face, even just the thought of a person, bring you so much sadness, when it used to make you excited, give you butterflies, even make your entire day? How did they just not see each other anymore, when they used to spend days upon days without leaving each others sides? How was he supposed to just suddenly not care, and move on, be mad, and even hate her?  
  
He pressed cancel, instead only changing her contact from her pet name to her real one. It was all he could do. His hand slowly lowered his phone to the floor, getting lost in his thoughts again.  
  
Lighting flashed through the window, reflecting against the walls as thunder broke through the sky. The crash settled into a deep, long rumble and he blinked, seeing the apartment again. The room was dimmer than before, the rain shower turning into a torrential downpour. Everything that wasn't black and white held a cold look, lights and shadows accented only by deep navy blues and sickly greens.  
  
It all seemed dusty and un-lived in. Shadows from droplets on the window stained and ran down his pale arm. He shivered, the cold air near the window raising goosebumps along his skin as the chill from the wall settled into his bones.  
  
For the first time, he consciously realized how lonely he felt. Really, inexplicably lonely. His whole, muted world made of nothing but thoughts. Unshared, and unshaped by anyone else's opinions, unanswered questions with no one to ask. The only person living in this twistedly beautiful universe was himself. And yet, there was some form of comfort in that. When he was alone, he didn't have to worry about others, or their actions or feelings towards him. It had been a long time since he had felt so alone, always surrounded by friends, or too busy to notice. It was depressing, and he felt even smaller, yet it somehow comforted him, for now.  
  
It won't be forever. Everyone always said that. Nothing is forever. This is just for a season. He believed them. But just because it wasn't forever, didn't mean it wouldn't feel like it.  
  
A door slammed somewhere in the building. Rain continued overflowing the gutters outside. His stomach growled. That was the first time he had felt like he could really eat something. His body was beginning to feel normal again. Not much, but in small ways. Maybe, he'll be okay again too, in the future.  
  
But not today.  
  
He stood, using the wall to steady himself, and went back to his bed.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> So I finally showed up with something besides fluff. Let me know what you guys think, if this is just crap or if you like it, please feed me with feedback, good or bad :)  
> I hope wherever you are, and whatever is going on, that this made your day that little bit better (or at least helped you escape reality for a moment).


End file.
